Chapter 12
I t had been a foolish thing for Dorothy to ask, given that it was his home, but that did not signify.
"I noticed that the door was open," Morgan explained, gesturing to it.
"Yes, well, I did not want it to be locked behind me. This is very high in the air, and I do not believe that I could climb down the ivy if I needed to."
He laughed gently at her, then joined her at the balcony wall. He was much taller than her, and had to bend forward to lean down onto it, where she simply had to rest against it and place her hands at the height of her waist.
"And why are you out here?" he asked.
That had been a little more difficult to explain. In truth, she had gone there because she did not know where else to go. Her room was unsettling her with how yellow it was, and if she ventured out into the hallway she risked seeing her housekeeper, and she certainly did not want that.
She could not tell her husband such things. He was kind to her, and telling him that his mother had awful taste in wallpaper and his housekeeper was possibly evil was not a kind thing to do in response.
"I needed air," she said simply. "The view from here is also beautiful. I can see for miles."
"Yes, my mother liked to come here, or so I am told. She liked to look at the–"
Dorothy wondered why he had stopped himself, but then she followed his eyeline and saw that he was looking at the lake. She sighed, knowing that Mrs. Herrington had told him what she had done.
"I know that it was wrong of me," she explained. "But it was so warm out and the water was cool."
"Do not worry about that. I have told Mrs. Herrington that she is not to bother you anymore, nor do I wish to hear about what you do with your own time from her. This is your home, and you may do as you please."
"Except enter the west wing," she joked.
"Yes, except that."
A silence settled between them, but it was a comfortable one. The night was pleasant and the sky was clear, revealing thousands of stars. Dorothy looked for constellations, something Beatrice had taught her to do, but she was not as good as her friend was.
She was not as good as any of her friends.
"Are you all right?" he asked suddenly.
"Yes, of course. I was simply thinking about my friends. They are lovely, and I hope that they are doing well."
"Have you written to them?"
"Yes, and two of them have replied, but my friend who is a duchess has not. I understand that, for she is doubtlessly busy with her own duties, as well as her child. It must all be quite exhausting."
"It will be your life one day, perhaps. Are you– do you still want that?"
She turned to him, looking up at him with wide eyes and a furrowed brow. She had married him, had she not? What more proof did he need?
"Do you regret this marriage, I mean," he corrected himself. "I know that I have not made it particularly easy for you, and I have only myself to blame for that. I simply do not know how to be a husband."
"You have never been one before, so that is to be expected. I should know, having never been a wife."
"Is that to say you do not regret this?"
"I shall not pretend it is easy. I miss my friends, and I miss the freedom of being unmarried, but there is good in it.
I am secure, I have so many opportunities, and my future is better than that of most ladies in the ton.
Not only that, but my parents do not have any control over me anymore.
I can finally do what I want, within reason, and be free.
I never thought that I would feel like this. "
He seemed satisfied, but she had one more thing to mention.
"I also love the garden."
"As do I. You may have noticed, but I have at least tried to care for the flowers. The grass is tedious work to keep track of, but the flowers are worth the work for me."
"You have cared for them brilliantly. I was wondering if you might like to have a few more things done, while I am helping with it?"
"I may well. What did you have in mind?"
"The glasshouse. It is large and beautiful, but I noticed that it needs some rejuvenation. The glass is old, and it has clouded a little which means not as much light will reach the plants. It will also not be as warm."
He nodded as she explained, and she knew that he agreed with her. For anyone not knowledgeable about them, they would assume it was enough light and warmth and that all was fine, but she knew better. As, it appeared, did he.
"If you wish to do anything to the garden, you have my permission. I know that you have a good knowledge of botany, and I trust that you will do the right thing. Do as you please with it."
"Oh, Morgan, thank you! I shall make it beautiful, I assure you. It is something I am rather good at. It is possibly the only thing that I am good at."
She had said the last part quietly, but he had heard her.
She did not like how he was looking at her, caring and sweet as though he wanted to change her mind.
He was not enamored by her, and she would never assume the contrary.
He was giving her a new life, and a good one at that, and she was his duchess and possibly one day they might have children.
It had been a deal, an arrangement, and nothing more, and so there wasn't any need for him to be looking at her the way that he was.
"Do you always speak so lowly of yourself?" he asked.
"It is the truth. I am not like the beautiful and elegant ladies of the ton . I am a simple and plain young lady, and I need not pretend otherwise."
"If you wish only to see yourself in that way, then that is perfectly fine, but you must remember that you are a duchess now. The ton expects us to be exceptional."
"Yes, well, if that is what you were hoping for then you were very wrong to choose me as your wife. I have never expected to have such high standards, and I have never planned to meet them."
"I know. That is why I chose you."
She paused, eyeing him carefully.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Come now, Dorothy. Did you honestly believe that I would act the way I did with you at the ball if I did not plan for anything to come of it?"
"Did you– did you recognize me?"
"Of course I did. Your father told me that you would be a mouse, and there was only one mouse there. Everyone else had chosen something ferocious or beautiful, but you–"
"Yes, I dressed as myself. Something quiet and unassuming."
"I wish that you could see yourself properly. You should know that you are far more than you believe yourself to be."
"I am assuredly not."
"Then, if you are not daring, why did you step into a lake? Why are you out here so late at night? Why did you kiss a stranger?"
"Do you want to know why?" she asked sharply.
"Do you want to know why I am suddenly acting this way?
It is because I am frightened. I do not do these things because I am daring and interesting.
I do it because I never know what else to do.
I kissed you because I had assumed my life was over, and that I would be tied to some monster my father had deemed me worthy of.
I stepped into the lake because the thought of going inside to those dark hallways was too much to bear. I am out here because–"
She stopped herself, but it was too late. He was already looking at her with both surprise and curiosity, for she had never spoken to him in such a manner. She struggled to think of a time when she had ever done so at all.
"It is nothing," she said. "Ignore me, I am tired, and I do not know what I am saying."
"No, continue, please," he encouraged. "I like this part of you. I can appreciate that you are meek and mild, but if you are able to speak so freely, then do so. I shall not be angry with you for it."
"Are you quite certain of that?"
"Yes, quite. Now, why are you out here?"
"I am out here because I hate my room."
He laughed gently at her, then louder. She joined him, in spite of everything. It was a ridiculous reason to hide outside at such a late hour, but it was the truth, and he accepted it willingly.
"Yes, my mother could not stand it. She had not been the one to choose it, but my father insisted that we had happier colors in her rooms. Everywhere else was dark, and he wanted her to have her own bright and pleasant space.
Unfortunately, she enjoyed the darkness, and so it was the one part of the house that she loathed. "
It helped to know that she was not the exception in her dislike of it. When he composed himself, however, he seemed to consider all of what she had said.
"But if you do not like the darkness of the manor, nor do you like the brightness of your rooms, what do you like?"
"Oh, the other rooms are perfectly fine, though not entirely to my tastes. It is only my bedchambers, for they are yellow."
"That is a pleasant color, is it not?"
"Not when you have been forced to wear it all your life, in some vain attempt to make you look brighter and happier. All that it did was make me look like a citrus fruit."
She had thought that he might laugh at her again, but he did not.
Instead, there was that sincerity again, the one that made her feel strange even though she could not quite explain why that was.
All that she knew was that it was the same way she had felt when they were alone in the gardens at that ball.
"I can arrange for you to have new gowns," he said gently. "You may see the modiste whenever you please, and you may choose whatever makes you happy."
"What makes me happy is plain shades, not the exquisite colors that I ought to prefer."
"You may dress in brown for all that I care. Truly, Dorothy, you need not try to bend yourself here. I do not care whether you are the very picture of the ton's expectations, for I am well aware that I am not either. I want you to be happy, so whatever it is that does that is what you should do."
"Very well, if you insist, though I shall also have a few in the expected colors, in the event that we attend a ball or some such thing."
He nodded, but Dorothy knew that he had no intentions of attending social events.
"May I ask you something?" she asked after a moment.
"You may."
"Why did you kiss me?"
He remained still for a moment, as if uncertain of what to say. They were standing close to one another, tantalizingly so, and Dorothy looked up at him with the same thoughts that she had the night they met. She waited for him to answer her, or at least to come even closer.
Instead, he stepped away, his gaze sliding from hers.
"It is late," he said, looking away. "We ought to retire to bed."
"Morgan, I–"
"If you dislike your room, you may choose another. They are all prepared, and likely more to your taste."
He left her standing on the balcony, her heart in her stomach. She wanted to follow him, to demand answers, but she could not. Her feet remained where they were, and she stood in place as if that would do anything at all to help her.
She slept in her own room that night.